I Don't Like Mondays
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: Set in the Raindrops universe where Emma and Rachel are friends. Will comes down with the flu and Emma substitutes for his class, with hilarious results.


She had a feeling that when Will came to bed last night, wheezing into his pajama sleeve, that today would not be a good day. And when she wakes up, sure enough, he's not in bed beside her, and the blanket from the end of her bed is gone, too.

Emma yawns and stretches, shutting off her alarm before it can make its traditional annoying squawk which is the only thing that wakes her up some mornings. She gets out of bed, padding into the hallway, rubbing a hand over her hair, and sees a shivering form on the couch, just about barely covered by the soft red blanket from the end of the bed.

"Will?"

Her voice is a little rusty and soft, but he hears her just fine, and rolls over, his face pale, his eyes bleary.

"Don't come any closer, Em. I'm really not well."

She freezes and manages to simultaneously look worried and sympathetic at the same time, her accent rolling pleasantly and warmly in his ears. "Ah, sweetie. I'm sorry."

Her voice is warm, much warmer than it used to be when these things happened in her household, and he manages a smile. "It's all right. Just a cold or something, some sort of flu. I already called into the board. It's okay if I stay here today? I promise, I'll pay for the couch to be cleaned."

Emma takes one step forward, one hand coming out from her side to reach out to him. "No, don't worry, Will. Just rest today, okay?" She comes within a few feet of the couch, and adjusts the blanket over his knees. "Why don't you go back to bed? That doesn't look very comfortable."

He swings his legs over the side of the couch and begins to shiver violently. "I, uh . . . I'm not sure I can make it to bed," he says sheepishly, and this time she strokes the side of his face, bravely.

"Okay. Well, let me get you another pillow, and would you like the heating pad, too?"

As she bustles about, getting him what he needs, he wraps the blanket more tightly around himself, watching her fondly. "Emma, you are so much better at this than you used to be."

She smiles thinly; she really isn't, but she loves him, and that makes all the difference. Coming over to the couch, she sits on the edge, her nightgowned back warm against his stomach. "Here, sweetheart. Take these."

He swallows two Advil, painfully, sipping the cool glass of water gratefully. She strokes his hair a little, her touch feather-light. "You're gonna be okay here by yourself?"

He nods. "I've had the flu before, Em. I'll be okay."

She blows him a kiss – she may be better than she used to be, but she isn't brave enough to actually put her lips to his fevered skin. "I'll call you at lunchtime, okay?" She brushes a hand over his forehead. "Feel better, Will."

He drifts off and she takes the time to get ready, washing her hands thoroughly, brushing her teeth, fixing her hair and her makeup carefully. She chooses an orange skirt and a tailored white blouse with silhouettes on it, one of her favourite outfits, and then drinks a cup of tea in the chair across from the couch, watching Will sleep fitfully.

She never thought she'd be able to get to this point – to be in the same room as a sick person, to know that she might be exposed and sick later, but not care that much. She feels concern instead of fear. And she longs to cuddle him, to smooth out the pained and pouty look from his face. She just isn't there yet.

Emma leaves Will on the couch, his fever finally going down, and brushes her hand over his hair one more time, and his eyes open a little.

"Bye, Em." His groggy voice is soft, and she finally gets up the courage to kiss him on the forehead.

"Bye, Will."

//~//

Figgins pokes his head into her office about half an hour after she gets in. She's reading the latest emails in a long line of budget talks and looks up, startled.

"Um, Principal Figgins! Uh, what can I . . . what can I do for you?" She hates how her voice shakes when she's around authority. Figgins is the kindest man alive, but old habits die hard. Luckily, he overlooks her stammering and speaks urgently, his accented voice emphasizing every second word as usual.

"Mr. Schuester is out sick today, and his substitute decided that she was gonna get sick, too! Now I've got four periods of Spanish that no one can take, and you're the last person with a language teachable in this school! I need you to cancel your appointments for today. You're going to be taking Schue's class."

Emma blinks, surprised. "Uh, sure, I can take his classes . . . but who will take my appointments?"

Figgins stalks over and grabs her schedule off her desk. "Emma, you don't have that many today. Just tell the secretary to reschedule them. Come on, the children are in study hall and tearing up the place. I need calm and order, Emma! You'll have to do something!"

Emma has done substitute teaching before; all the teachers have, of course. However, it's been about a year since she's had to take anyone's class, and the thought of trying to teach Spanish scares her a little. She's not bad at the language, but she prefers to teach English or History as opposed to a language that she butchers on a good day.

Nevertheless, she totters down to Will's classroom, prepared to have the kids work on a worksheet or something ultimately simple. She freezes, however, when she walks into the classroom and sees twenty-six rapt faces staring curiously at her. Her face falls a little and her hands grip her folders a little more tightly.

This isn't missed by the class.

She stands in front of the room, tries to smile at them all. "Um, hello, hi, kids. I'm Ms. Pillsbury. Mr. Schuester is out sick today, so I'll be your teacher for today. Can, uh, can someone bring me up to speed on what you're working on with Mr. Schue?"

The kids stare at her incredulously, and then a group of boys in the back begin to laugh, loudly and raucously. The rest of the class quickly follows, and Emma feels her cheeks flush red.

She raises her voice over the laughter. "Sorry, I believe I just asked a question. Who can tell me what you guys are working on?"

A petite girl raises her hand in the front row. "We were conjugating verbs. Working in the workbook."

Just then, Emma spots a piece of paper on Will's desk and picks it up. On it is his lesson plan for today. Thank God.

"I'm going to take roll first, and then you'll be working on pages seventeen through twenty in your workbooks."

She clears her throat, begins with the first name. "Jamie Aaronson?"

There's no answer, and she looks up, confused. "Jamie?"

"He's sick," comes a voice from the back, and then a titter. "He's got gonorrhea!"

The class explodes into laughter again, and Emma rolls her eyes. "We don't need to know that. What's your name?"

"Harry."

"Okay, Harry – "

"Harry Dick." The class erupts in laughter again and Emma's face sets angrily.

"Very funny. You know what, I'm going to pass around this sheet, mark if you're here or not, and Mr. Schuester can sort any idiotic behaviour out later."

She sits at the desk, watching them all open their books and pretend to be working, and tries to pull herself together. Emma's been lucky in that she's never had a class she couldn't handle, but this class is really pulling her nerves.

The class falls deceptively quiet, and Emma opens her folders, trying to finish her notes on her last three appointments. However, she has a feeling that it won't last – and it doesn't.

"Miss? MISS!"

"I can hear you fine," says Emma in a normal voice, not raising her eyes from her paper. "What's the issue?"

"I need to ask you a question!"

Emma looks up and to the back of the room – it's Alex Karofsky, one of the top hockey players at McKinley and, as Will puts it, "dumber than a load of bricks". She smiles encouragingly at him.

"What do you need, Alex?"

"I can't understand this question." He comes up to her desk and points out a question in the book. She opens her mouth to clarify for him and catches, out of the corner of her eye, something being thrown across the classroom.

"Who threw that?" She's standing now, her voice angry and harsh, a tone Emma almost never takes with anyone. A few of the girls in the front row look alarmed, but the group of sports jocks in the back just laugh harder.

"Okay, you, and you? Move from there. And you – that side of the room." She's huffing a little now, her cheeks bright red in frustration, but the kids obediently, if grudgingly, move, and Emma is able to sit down again, catching her breath.

Until the next distraction, that is.

"Miss? I need to go to the bathroom."

"Miss, I do too. Bad."

Just as the third girl raises her hand, the bell rings, and the kids rocket out of the classroom, laughing and yelling in excitement. Emma supports her head on her hands and feels the beginning of a headache coming on.

How does Will get through the day with these hooligans?

//~//

Her next class is quieter. She smiles at several Glee club kids and hopes that this class will be quieter and better behaved. Sophomore Spanish isn't hard, and they have a Spanish history lesson planned, so she can teach for half the period and then set them some work to do for the rest.

She picks up Will's pointer in her hands and begins, passing the roll sheet around again after introducing herself. "So, today we're going to learn about the Spanish Inquisition. I'll run through the chapter with you, and then you can answer the questions in the book for the rest of the period."

A girl raises her hand in the back. "Miss, I can't deal with the Inquisition. Can I be excused from this lesson?"

Another girl also raises hers. "Me, too. Too triggering."

The class uses this distraction to begin to talk, loudly. Though the Glee kids sit quietly, the rest of the class begins to talk about the upcoming basketball game and what seats they're hoping to get in the auditorium.

Emma raises her voice again, hating what this is doing to her patience. "Excuse me? Quiet, please!"

There's no response, and she calls out again, hearing her voice crack from the strain. "Hey! Quiet down!"

Finn Hudson watches from his desk as she unsuccessfully tries to quiet the class, and she feels his eyes on her as her face suddenly crumples into a big pout, her lower lip trembling from the overstimulation and strain of trying to quiet teenagers who just don't care.

So, Finn stands up, and in a voice that's used to shouting over an entire crowd of high school football fans, stops the noise with a single "HEY!"

The class turns to look at him, and he scowls. "Shut up. Ms. Pillsbury's talking." He looks at her, nods, and winks a little as if to say, over to you.

She smiles at him weakly through the tears that threaten to spill down her face and then puts the pointer gently on Will's desk. When she speaks, her voice is quiet, defeated.

"You guys can read the chapter. If you need any help, I'll be here."

She spends the rest of the period with her eyes studiously on her work, and only lifts them when the bell rings. Finn is standing at her desk.

"Sorry, Ms. Pillsbury. But they were being, well, jerks, and you looked so upset, and – "

"No, Finn, please," interrupts Emma, trying to smile. "You did me a favour in there. Thank you."

He smiles at her. "Any time, Ms. P."

He leaves and Emma realizes that it's lunch time. She thankfully rises, her stomach growling, to recharge and face the afternoon.

When she gets to her office, she closes the blinds and lets herself cry for a moment, feeling utterly ashamed in her own teaching skills.

The afternoon has to be better.

//~//

During lunch, Rachel pops her head in Emma's office, and her pretty, piquant face splits into a grin when she sees Emma meticulously eating carrot sticks while perusing the New York Times online.

"Emma!"

Emma looks up, mid-munch, and smiles. "Hi, Rach."

Rachel flounces in, putting her bag beside her desk. "I heard your morning was crazy. Who knew you'd get to substitute for Mr. Schue's class!"

"It was a bit of a surprise," Emma smiles, but her eyes are tired, and Rachel cocks her head, putting a hand on Emma's sleeve.

"Are you okay?"

Emma opens her mouth to respond, but to her chagrin and unpleasant surprise, her lower lip starts trembling, and Rachel's face grows sympathetic.

"Yeah, Finn told me the guys were jerks. And we could hear your first class down the hall."

A tear slips down Emma's cheek, but she doesn't trust herself to speak, and Rachel doesn't push. She simply squeezes Emma's wrist, and then gets up, goes behind her desk, and wraps her arms around Emma's shoulders.

"Don't get upset."

"I'm fine, Rach," Emma replies, but her voice shakes a little, and Rachel rubs a hand over Emma's back, her touch soothing.

"Mondays are just sucky days, that's all. It'll get better and then Mr. Schue will be back tomorrow, and you won't have to deal with those idiots again."

Emma smiles, turns, and hugs Rachel properly. "Thanks, sweetie."

Rachel grins back, pleased this time to be the person who comforts Emma instead of needing comfort.

"Have a great afternoon!"

//~//

And sure enough, the afternoon does get better. Emma is able to teach Spanish history, conjugate simple verbs and mark some assignments without a hitch and is happily working on the last bit of her notes in her last class of the day when another crisis presents itself.

Emma is used to drinking tea and water all day without worrying – she can get up and go to the bathroom at any interval, and most appointments only last an hour. But when you're substitute teaching, you're not allowed to leave the classroom for any reason unless someone's there to keep an eye on the kids while you're gone.

Emma, forgetting this rule, had drunk the normal volume of liquid she normally goes through in a day. And just as she finishes off the last bit of her peppermint tea, making a last note on the page, her bladder uncomfortably reminds her that she needs to take care of another bodily function besides hydration.

Lifting the phone, she calls the teacher's lounge and speaks to whoever picks up.

"Hi, it's Emma Pillsbury. Can I get someone down to watch room 204?"

"Erma? Is that you? Since when do you teach?" Sue Sylvester's voice comes over the phone and Emma nearly drops it in horror.

"Hi, Sue," she says weakly, and hears the triumphant note in Sue's voice as the other woman answers.

"Well, Amy, where's Schuester today? And why do you have his class? I thought that's why they hired substitutes; so that you don't have to inflict your mental illness on the kids."

Emma's bladder twinges again and she moves uncomfortably. "Look, Sue, can you let me know if someone can come down here? I need to run out for a second."

"I'm not sure; I'm the only one here, and I'm busy with the next Cheerios routine. You know how it is; I can't tear myself away at this point, it's crucial that I spot any problems early, before they become, well, embarrassments. Sorry, Alma."

Emma swallows weakly, feeling her head begin to pound. "Okay, thank you, Sue."

By the time the last fifteen minutes of class arrive, Emma is practically bursting, and can't stop tapping her foot against the edge of the chair. She moves uncomfortably, wondering if this wonderful day will be topped off by an unthinkable embarrassment, when Figgins walks through the door.

"Emma – Sue let me know you needed someone to watch the class?"

She almost kisses him in relief. "Thank you, sir. I'll be right back."

Locked in the stall, the feeling of sweet relief is almost more than she can take, and as she washes her hands, her face twists in satirical amusement.

Will OWES her for this.

//~//

Emma gets out of the car, feeling her back crack in weariness, and slides her key in her door, fully prepared for the mess that's going to greet her when she comes inside. Will's spent all day sick – the house is probably crawling in germs. When she thinks of how she's going to be scrubbing all night, Emma wants to cry. Her head pounds harder, and as she swallows, she feels a slight itch in her throat.

Will is sitting up on the couch, his comfortable sweats draped attractively over his muscles. "Hi, sweetheart. How was your day?"

Emma opens her mouth to answer, but to her horror, she begins to cry, and cry hard.

Will gets up in alarm. "Oh, Em. What happened?" He comes over, wrapping his arms around her, letting her cry into his sweet-smelling shirt, and rubs her back, stroking her hair.

"I had to teach your class, and they're – well, they're assholes, Will!"

He actually begins to laugh – Emma never swears. He cuts it off quickly, helping her off with her coat, rubbing her back and guiding her to a chair, pulling her onto his lap, letting her cuddle against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. They can be a little hard to handle. Where was the sub? How come they asked you to do it?"

"Because apparently my minor in German means that I'm one of the only ones qualified to teach Spanish." Emma finishes, rubbing a Kleenex over her nose and sneezing. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"Bless you," replies Will politely, and then looks at Emma sharply. "Sweetie, your cheeks are awful red. Are you okay?"

"I'm tired. And my throat is sore," says Emma bluntly, leaning her head against the chair. "How are you feeling?"

He grins, his eyes sparkling. "Much better. But I think I may have passed it on to you," he said, his eyes crinkling as he strokes her hair.

Emma normally would have panicked at this, but she's so tired now, she doesn't even care. "You can take my appointments, then. I guarantee, you owe me, Schuester. Your classes were awful."

He kisses her nose and she wrinkles it and grins. "I'll make sure that I talk to them about being so rude to you."

She sneezes again and rubs her eyes, and his face turns concerned.

"Come on, let's get you to bed."

He helps her off with her clothes and into a pair of her softest pajamas, cuddling up next to her and spooning her comfortably. He kisses the back of her neck, rubbing her stomach, and she closes her eyes in exhaustion.

And though she's sick, tired, and emotionally drained, the day doesn't seem so bad, after all.


End file.
